


where the stars do not take sides

by missveils (Missveils)



Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (because there was gonna be a fragment in between but it was lackluster so i deleted it), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Don't say I didn't warn you, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Endings, POV Second Person, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), me n the homies keeping msolavellan alive, poetic second person, theres an angs fluff whiplash between the first and the scond fragments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/pseuds/missveils
Summary: Out beyond ideas of wrongdoingand rightdoing there is a field.I’ll meet you there.When the soul lies down in that grassthe world is too full to talk about.The man was alone in the island, after losing the people he loved. Two paths opened before him: the past and the future. The cabin and the open waters. And, in that turning point,(written in poetic second person, aka not reader POV, just... pretentious second person)
Relationships: Fen'Harel/Male Lavellan (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas
Series: Inquisitor Dáire Lavellan [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694902
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	where the stars do not take sides

_Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing  
and rightdoing there is a field.  
I’ll meet you there._

_When the soul lies down in that grass  
the world is too full to talk about._

The man was alone on the island, after losing the people he loved. Two paths opened before him: the past and the future. The cabin and the open waters. And, in that turning point,

**i. the man drowned in the star-speckled lake, trying to reach the shore.**

Scattered over the stones, embers and ashes and dust that refuses to settle. Magic crackles in the air, making your eyes water. He falls to his knees. Both of you are more exhausted than you have ever been in your lives. Dáire looks up at you, and he also has tears in his eyes. 

“Please, stop this. I’m tired.” 

You step towards him reaching to hold his arm. He flinches, expecting another spell, another fight, but lets you hold him. For a moment, his forehead rests on your shoulder.

“I know. But I cannot let you stop what has already started. I’m sorry.”

One leg after another, he stands, leaning on your arms. You stand with him, still holding his arms. Just like you did many times after battle when you were both so tired front he magic and the fighting you had to lean on each other to keep walking. Those moments which were only a few years ago now feel like they existed in another life. 

But this cannot keep going on, you cannot keep fighting. He is barely standing and you cannot give up now. Not while the world stands at this turning point. You hold him as tight as you can, knowing that if he steps away the fight will start once more.

“You know I cannot let you do this.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” As if that is the only thing you can say to him anymore. “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

“No… Ir-”

The words crack horribly and die in his throat as it turns into stone, as the hair tangled between your fingers turns into marble. 

As a sharp red pain pierces your chest. 

A dagger, now a stone dagger, thrust through a gap in your armour. Pushed upwards, directly into your heart. 

The blood pools and stains the marble red as you try to push away. But the angle of the dagger does not allow for you to step back, to pull it from your flesh. 

So you have no other choice but to hold onto his shoulders, to lean onto his face, as your blood runs down his arm.

And the fear of nothingness, the fear of leaving your people and your land lost in the dark, the fear of death, they do not compare to the shiver down your spine as the world darkens and the last thing you see is his eyes, now white and cold but still sad, still weary.

The third apology dies in your throat.

**ii. the man stayed on the island. and lived. and woke up to**

The singing of birds. The slow breathing of Dáire next to you. The burbling of a nearby brook. 

You have lived for too long. And some mornings you expect to wake up in a place of spires and gold and stained glass. And some mornings you expect to wake up alone in a dark forest. But every morning you wake up next to him and there is nothing to be done about it, no end of time, no danger, just the sun slowly rising in the horizon. 

It will never be easy. Demons still walk on the footsteps you leave behind. You have yours, Dáire has his. And sometimes the only thing you can do is sleep in turns, watch over each other’s dreams. You tell him that you are here, that you are not going to leave when he wakes. He tells you that this is enough. 

You don’t stop for more than a season in the same place. Not out of fear, but it just feels natural to be on the move constantly. Not out of guilt, but it does not feel right to have somewhere that belongs to you. 

But like birds, you keep returning to the same places over and over. 

In winter, you cross the threshold of the abandoned villa, turning on fireplaces and torches with magic. Warming the floors so that you can walk barefoot on them. Winters are hard and dark, and the villa is quiet as a ghost. The garden is bare and you have never seen its blooms. But the forest outside glitters with the snow, the tall chambers echo Dáire’s voice. And the floors are warm. 

Spring takes you to an abandoned farmhouse in the hinterlands, in a forgotten valley. Spring brings arrows cutting the air, hunts through the forest. The water-clear laughter of Dáire as he rides on your back as you cross the fields in your wolf form. The bed smells of grass and campfire smoke. And the berry bush is taller every year.

At the end of summer, you leave the home by the cliffside in the north. You leave behind the smell of sun on skin, the sound of the waves. The saltwater tangles on Dáire’s hair. You leave behind the long days and the quiet nights exploring the Fade side by side. But you leave holding his hand. And you remind yourself of how leaving does not feel lonely if it’s with him. 

When the days grow colder, the trees are bare, and autumn is ending, you leave the Free Marches back to the south. You leave the warmth of hearths, the chill of the Wounded Coast when it rains, the walks through forgotten ruins and forests that Dáire knows like the palm of his hand. His sister’s farewell hug becomes a little less tense, a little longer every year. 

And in winter, you cross the threshold of the abandoned villa, this time with a new life bundled in your arms, warm among furs. And the house is a little warmer, and the snow is kinder that year. And the villa is not ghost-quiet this time. And the garden blooms at the end of winter that year, and the blossoms under your window are yellow. 

You have lived for too long, and none of it has felt truly real. But when you sleep under the stars and the canopy of trees, with the small baby between you and Dáire, you think about this path, these paths, and the places they join like the lines threading the stars in the sky. And maybe they are this place of love. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dáire Lavellan is @littlegumshoe (on Tumblr). They also made this gorgeous art for this fic :')
> 
>   
>   
> (bonus babie:)  
>   
> 


End file.
